Let’s rewind to the party.
Everyone’s in costume. Everyone is drinking. Connor’s so drunk he’s puking in the kitchen sink. Bo and Meg are upstairs, enthusiastic and increasingly naked in front of the wide-open window. Ben and Bea are alternating rapid-fire shit talk with Fireball shots, oblivious to everyone else groaning in despair because the UST on display is just ridiculous; Pedro even orchestrated this whole conspiracy to get these two together, which had been going smoothly—but still here they are, decidedly not fucking. But Pedro doesn’t look to be in a Cupid sort of mood tonight. He’s grim, standing with his half-brother, Donny, and his BFF, Clay—and Clay’s getting into it with his girl, Hero, like there’s gonna be drama, this is—wait, oh shit, oh SHIT—
Crazy things happen at a party, right? But cause of this one, a girl is dead.
That’s only Act I, though. Fast forward a year.
Ben walks home. It’s cold and it’s dark, and all he wants to do is warm his fingers inside Bea, to make her arch back and shake with pleasure, to quiet her brain, and his too, for a while. Inconvenient things, brains. Necessary, sure, but so very prone to regret, always poking at ugly memories, fruitlessly trying to change their shape.
“Speaking of,” Ben says, as he passes his old frat house. He wonders if Pedro and Clay are inside; misses them, which is vexing. Ben already made his choice, threatened to knock Clay’s teeth out of his slanderous goddamn mouth—but still. Ben misses them. Having the moral high ground does absolute zip to soothe one’s heart.
Poor heart, Bea would say, one of their running jokes. Everyone insists they talk in code. Pity it’s not true; what a relief it’d be, to already have secret words to go with the ring hidden in his pocket.
“Poetry?” he wonders, before shaking his head. Ben was not born under a rhyming planet; nobody should be subjected to his terrible meter and verse. “Better to be plain: Bea, I love you. Yes, I said I’d never marry. And all right, I called you a harpy once—but we change, don’t we? You’ve changed me, and I don’t deserve you, but…marry me, anyway? Please?”
Ben sighs. “Very ominous endings,” he mutters, and steps on something…strange as he turns the corner. It’s softer than sidewalk, squishier. Something with bounce. He looks down.
It’s…hamburger, he thinks, raw hamburger and hot Italian sausage, all wrapped up in a T-shirt: Messina University. Bad choice, that: it’s a white shirt, used to be, but now it’s all wet and red with blood. Ben’s sneaker is wet and red, too. Some of the meat clings to his shoelaces. It’s disgusting; there’s pounds of the stuff, discarded here on the street. Why…why are there legs, why…why is it…who is it…
Brains, so inconvenient. Always inevitably failing to save you, because reality can only be denied so long; death can only be denied so long. And Bo is very, very dead. Bo is disemboweled; Bo is undone—
Ben staggers a few steps away and throws up.
Officer Berry arrives on the scene.
He isn’t allowed to examine the body. The cops treat campus police like a joke, even though Officer Berry and Officer Virgil were the only ones who uncovered the foul trickery at last year’s Halloween-in-January party. The students respect him, though. He’s cool; he knows the lingo. Officer Berry has rapport.
Benjamin Branagh is sitting on the curb, wearing a shock blanket and only one sneaker. Officer Berry hunkers beside him. “What’s with the shoe?”
“…New trend,” Ben says.
Kids today, Officer Berry thinks fondly, then glances over at the corpse. “Gnarly, huh? In my line of work, you see lots of dead bodies—”
“You do?”
“But an effervescent one? That’s wild.”
Ben blinks slowly. “Do you mean eviscerated?”
Officer Berry shrugs. “Tomato, potato. I’ll give you some advice, Ben; you’re not a man until you’ve stumbled across a few corpses. That nine-year-old who found the old Dean impaled last week? Where do you think he’ll be in 20 years?”
“Therapy?”
Officer Berry laughs. “Good one,” he says, clapping Ben on the back as he turns to peer at the body again. “Wait, isn’t that Bo? I just saw that troublemaker. Said someone in a white veil was following him. Real spooky stuff. Know anything about that?”
“No, I don’t hang with—wait, a veil? Like?” Ben gestures vaguely at his face.
“Yeah, like,” Officer Berry says, and points at the white lace crumpled in Bo’s bloody hand. The old Dean had been clutching a veil, too, when he’d fallen three stories onto his own picket fence. “Another trend?”
“Sure,” Ben says distantly. “Frat guys are all about that wedding chic lifestyle.”
“Right, right,” Officer Berry says, quickly jotting this down. “Wide suspect pool, then, hard to solve. Unless!” He snaps his fingers. “Maybe it’s Hero’s ghost, out for revenge!”
Ben blinks some more.
“I’m going home,” he says, and walks away, taking the shock blanket with him.
Okay, pause. We gotta talk about Hero cause, technically, no one knows who killed her.
Let’s be clear: she’s absolutely dead. This isn’t one of those weird “wronged girl only pretends to be dead cause some random clergyman wants to stir up moral outrage” stories, like, what kind of fucking friar are you, my dude? No, Hero died a few hours after the party. COD is head trauma, right? But the autopsy couldn’t tell who dealt the killing blow. The main suspects:
1. Clay
Clay breaks up with Hero, and it’s brutal: he weeps, screams, calls Hero a fucking whore, etc. The whole thing is misogynistic AF, but also? It’s bizarre. Hero, she doodled hearts everywhere and blushed whenever she heard a dirty joke. Like, let’s stan for virgins and hos alike, but the idea that girl was a ho? Please.
Anyway, Pedro’s backing up Clay’s story, and Bea’s yelling at them, and Hero’s in tears, and Clay, he gets her by the wrist and shoves hard. Hero goes down, she’s out, and someone calls the cops, so Donny—aka Melancholic Donny or Donny the Dick—says, “Dude, she deserves what she got, let’s bounce.” And Clay, Pedro, and Donny the Dick bounce.
Hero wakes up a minute later, seeming okay. She doesn’t wanna go home, though, maybe because Bea’s drunkenly vowing to eat Clay’s heart in the marketplace and shit, like, damn—so instead Ben and Bea get Hero in an Uber and drop her off at her Uncle Tony’s.
2. Leo
Hero’s dad is—well, was—the Dean of Messina University. Unfortunately, he was super old-fashioned about sex, like, obsessed with his kid being chaste and shit? I don’t know, I’m just the messenger; don’t expect me to explain it. But Leo and Clay bonded, right, so night of the party, Leo texts Clay some joke about giving away his daughter—cause Hero dressed as a ghost bride, see—and Clay, being Clay, texts U CAN TAKE HER BACK, with a blurry vid of a short woman in white fucking a dude by a window.
Security cameras show Hero, now unsteady, arriving at Tony’s, only to find Leo also there and talking some truly crazy shit about knives and tainted flesh. He grabs Hero by the hair and shoves her. We can’t see if she hits her head. Either way, she’s up, running out the door as Tony holds Leo back, all while Leo rage-screams, “Let her die!”
3. Hero
Hero’s body is found at the beach, close to the rocky cliffside. There’s no evidence anyone else was there. Did she decide life wasn’t worth living anymore and jump?
Like, maybe? But Hero’s injuries were inconsistent with a long fall. More likely:
4. Cruel Fate
Head wounds are tricky. Could be Hero was dying before she even got to the beach. Maybe she died, and then fell from the path. Maybe she only fell because she was dizzy.
Or maybe Hero was fine, just unlucky, and tripped.
No one likes this theory much. It’s very anticlimactic.
But back to Act II.
Ben and Bea eat breakfast the next morning. Ben frequently cooks sausage. He does not cook sausage today. Bea, sitting beside him, leans into his shoulder. “You were so quiet last night. I half-wondered if you were Ben at all.”
“Never fear,” Ben tells her, heroically. “My tongue is once again at the ready.”
“Pity, that. I could’ve done with some peace and quiet.”
Ben claps a hand to his heart. “Insults! Before nine in the morning! Have mercy, my dear Lady Disdain!”
“Never,” Bea says, popping a strawberry into her mouth.
He grins. God, he loves her.
Bea asks what the police said. Ben doesn’t tell her Officer Berry’s theory. She’d been so devastated by Hero’s death, and furious no one had been held responsible: Donny got booted from the frat, and Leo forced into retirement, but a verdict? Prison? Nope. Pedro is still popular, and Clay, who all but went door to door proclaiming Hero’s virtue, easily earned forgiveness.
Bea, meanwhile, sank into depression, and Ben had been terrified he’d lose her to it.
She’s been doing better lately, the occasional nightmare aside, but Bea rarely admits to any sincere emotion. Also, she just lost her uncle to a murderous picket fence. Her very estranged uncle, but still. Ghost stories are the last thing she needs.
Of course, there are a scarcity of positive topics, at present.
“The official theory,” Ben says, “is that MU finally got our own masked serial killer.”
Bea’s eyes widen. “How trendy of us. But only a kind, forgiving virgin can defeat one of those, I think. Messina is plumb out. Alas.”
She’s smiling because Bea is always smiling, but Ben knows her of old. “Hero would have made the very best Final Girl,” he says. “But perhaps hope is not entirely lost. You, certainly, wouldn’t go down without a fight.”
“True,” Bea says. “I could probably talk any killer to death.”
“My Lady Tongue,” Ben agrees, and laughs when she punches his shoulder. “We could team up together. Talk until their ears bleed.”
“Nobody can talk like us,” Bea says. Then, “Oh. What if we already know him?”
Ben, who’s been avoiding that particular thought, deflects. “Are you so sure it’s a him?”
“It’s always stabbing with those types, isn’t it, all thrust and penetration?” Bea raises a brow. “Sounds like a man’s office to me.”
Ben scoffs. “Not all men,” he says, faux-outraged, as he glances at the time. He gets one sneaker on. Remembers where the other one is. Bits of Bo probably still cling to it. That smell—
Bea squeezes his shoulder. Ben closes his eyes.
“How are you?” she asks. “Really?”
Very ill, he thinks. “Very late,” he says, and leaves the apartment at, really, a very reasonable pace. Bea isn’t the only one who cowers in the face of sincerity, though he’ll have to overcome this character flaw if he means to propose properly. A problem for another day.
He avoids his usual route, also reasonable. “Continuing the theme of reasonability,” Ben says, loftily ignoring any strange looks, “Hero didn’t kill Bo. Bo was killed with a machete or something. A tool. Ghosts don’t use tools, right? Humans use tools. Q.E.D., the killer is a human.”
Ben might not be using Q.E.D correctly; he’s a theater major, after all. “And ghosts and undead serial killers are different. USKs definitely use tools—but! There are no documented cases of a confirmed USK. It’s all men in masks, and copycats, and people with strange medical conditions that allow them to run around after getting shot six times. All perfectly normal and absolutely nothing to worry about—”
“Monologuing again, are we?”
Ben, manfully, does not yelp.
Meg pops up at his side. It’s unseasonably warm for January, so she’s swapped her skinny jeans for distressed shorts, a plunging V-neck, and a fanny pack that says MUCH ADO ABOUT PUSSY. “Sorry if I scared you,” she says, not sounding very sorry.
Ben refuses to hyperventilate. “As you should be. Not that you did.”
“What’s with last year’s kicks?”
Ben sighs, mourning his sneakers anew. Finding Bo was…horrifying, really, but he suspects he’s more upset about his ruined shoes than the guy he stepped in. What does that say about him as a person? “New ones are dead. Covered in blood and spaghetti.”
Meg stops. “Holy shit. You found the Dick?”
“Never lost mine,” Ben says immediately, then stops. “Wait, Donny? He’s dead?”
“Oh,” Meg says, wincing. “Spaghetti. Shit, now I am sorry I scared you—”
But Ben’s waving his hands around. “Rewind to Donny.”
So. Donny the Dick died like this:
It’s 3:00 a.m. Donny’s sulking alone in the campus library, like the brooding bastard he is. He hasn’t had a great year, honestly. First, his scheme to break up Clay and Hero was almost immediately uncovered—because of courseA. Bo bangs Meg near an open window
B. Donny, bringing Pedro and Clay outside, says, “Dude, isn’t that your girl?”
c. Hope Meg just…never figures it out, I guess?
This plan was so doomed that the most incompetent campus policemen in history uncovered it in about an hour. At least Bo had the sense to look halfway remorseful after Hero’s death; Donny the Dick couldn’t be bothered. No wonder he got booted from the frat and lost, like, the two friends he actually had. And what’s especially fucked up? Whole thing wasn’t even about Hero. Donny just resented his brother, and hurting Clay meant hurting Pedro, or some shit? Basically, Hero died cause Donny had daddy issues. Rightfully, everyone was like fuck that guy.
Anyway, so Donny’s sitting in the dark, like an asshole, when he hears a strange noise. And he’s all, “Who’s there?” But no one answers, so he goes back to being an asshole, and then there’s another sound and blood is everywhere, only Donny doesn’t say anything about it because suddenly Donny doesn’t have a head anymore.
He’s found a few hours later, a white veil covering his face.
“It’s okay, though,” Meg says seriously. “They saved the books.”
Ben is relieved at that, and is seriously beginning to suspect he might be a terrible person. He decides not to ask Meg, who has zero qualms about Real Talk: on men (so hot but so dumb), fashion (okay, what’s with that collar), college elitism (oh, you thought this seventh-generation townie couldn’t get into your school, well, buckle up, bitch, because I’m just getting started). Instead, Ben says, “So, Donny lost his head,” and waits for an inevitable dick joke. Meg likes nothing so much as a good dick joke.
But Meg doesn’t say anything at all.
Ben frowns. “Okay. Out with it.”
Meg shakes herself. “Did you slide something in? Ben.” She claps his shoulder. “Is it so very small?”
Ben shakes his head. “You can do better.”
“Your girlfriend certainly thought so,” Meg says, then sighs. “There’s this rumor.”
Ben sighs too. “It’s not a—”
“I saw her,” Meg says, and Ben stops.
Meg doesn’t, so he runs after her as she walks forward, chin up. “The other night. Someone in a white veil stood outside my window, watching me. I heard…”
About Bo, someone following him. Maybe Donny. Maybe the old Dean.
“Meg—”
Meg takes an unsteady breath. “If it’s Hero, that means she blames me.”
“You didn’t know,” Ben reminds her.
“I should have,” Meg says, looking away. “He—”
“You didn’t know,” Ben says again, “and Hero loved you. She wouldn’t do this.”
Meg doesn’t say anything.
“Come on,” Ben says. “Let’s get to class.”
It’s a popular class: Advanced Thrusting and Penetration, aka, Fencing, taught by Bea’s Uncle Tony and his girlfriend, Sula—although it’s just Sula today. Lots of people didn’t show up, actually, as if they’re suddenly loathe to wander about just because of three grisly murders in the past seven days. Clay isn’t here, either. Ben decides not to feel any particular way about it.
“Cowards,” Meg says, having changed into her fencing jacket and gym shoes. “Personally, I feel much safer with a sword in hand.”
Ben pokes her with the rubber tip of his foil.
Meg grins. “Push hard enough,” she says, “and you can get just about anything through.”
He shakes his head as the class breaks up into sparring partners. There’s an uneven number of students, so Ben squares off against Sula, who likes to cheat by discussing emotions. Not because she needs to. Just because she’s mean.
“Tony’s devastated about Leo,” Sula mentions, “not that he’ll admit it, of course.”
Ben parries, nods, parries again. Bea had taken the call in near silence, then set down the phone and said, Apparently, my uncle was impaled. To think, he didn’t even have the decency to do so before the holidays. Think of the awkwardness we could’ve saved.
“Hmm,” he says, non-committedly.
“Hmm,” Sula echoes. “You should try to cheer Bea up somehow—oh! You could finally do something about that rock you’ve been carrying around all month!”
Ben gawks. Sula lunges and scores a point.
“Trickery wins the day,” she reminds him, and starts rounding on the other students. Ben, sighing, turns to watch Meg absolutely destroy Connor with a lightning-fast riposte.
Connor groans. “Emasculated again,” he jokes, or pretends to joke. Ben doesn’t know him well, other than as Always the First Guy to Vomit, but there’s a sliver of bitterness in his voice, the kind he’s heard from dudes who can’t stand to lose to a woman. Ben feels sorry for him, honestly. His sex life must be hopelessly insipid.
Meg shakes her head. “If only women were given swords at birth,” she says. “We’re so much better at using them.”
Sula, correcting a student’s stance a few feet away, turns toward Meg. “Some of us do have swords at birth,” she reminds her. “Or still have swords. Gender isn’t biology.”
“It isn’t,” Meg agrees. “Sorry.”
Sula nods and moves down the line. Meg lifts her mask. “She’s right, of course. I’m a woman because I’m amazing, not because I have…”
“A shield?” Ben suggests, a doubtful euphemism.
Connor laughs. “If Meg has a shield, she’s never bothered lifting it. She welcomes every thrust.”
Ben’s fingers tighten around his foil, but Meg just smiles. “Sure do,” she says. “And why should I? Chastity is such a bullshit double standard.”
Connor lifts his own mask, yawning. “Is it Fuck the Patriarchy time already?”
“It’s always Fuck the Patriarchy time,” Meg says, “and I’d be happy to swap bodies for a day, if you don’t understand why.”
“You just want to handle my sword.”
“Ugh. I’d rather swear off blades entirely. Although better you than Clay, I suppose. Where is that asshole, anyway?”
Connor shrugs. “Who knows? He’s been weird lately. Like, singing to his dead girlfriend weird. I think even Pedro’s getting sick of him.”
Ben frowns. “Did they fight?”
Connor nods, opening his mouth—
The lights go out.
Ben might shriek, maybe. Whatever. Half the class is screaming. Someone bumps into Ben, hard, and he stumbles back, falling. He lands on his ass, drops his foil, and can’t find it again in the dark. He needs to move. He can’t move. What if he moves, and then—
The lights are on.
Ben blinks, looking around frantically. Meg’s still on her feet, standing in front of Connor. Sula’s beside a few students, shielding them with big you shall not pass energy. But there’s no blood, no spaghetti, no decapitated heads. Everyone looks okay—
Oh. Someone’s here.
They’re standing in the corner, wearing a shapeless white cloak and a heavy white veil. They’re tall. They’re holding an axe.
They’re stepping forward, closer to Meg.
“Meg!” Ben screams, scrambling up, but the axe is already in the air.
Meg sees it. Connor sees it. She screams. He screams.
She drops face-first.
The axe sails over her head.
Connor drops, too.
Not fast enough.
Shit. Did I forget to tell you we’re in Act III?
Jump to the next scene:
Bea falls asleep waiting for Ben to come home, dreams of chasing Hero through some cavernous cathedral. They’re playing tag, which Bea always wins; as children, they were known as Giraffe and Mouse, respectively. Only somehow, Hero’s too far ahead and unfolding, unspooling, collapsing into a pile of blood-soaked lace. Bea sifts through the fabric with desperate fingers, and she’s screaming, screaming, screaming—
—and then she’s waking up, laughing, as Ben murmurs her name.
“This one was just so absurd,” Bea says, as he sits beside her. “For the dead to return as laundry—” She laughs harder, wiping her eyes. Ben squeezes her hand. His face is gentle, and she hates it, hates how kindly anxious he can be. Ben’s tongue is sharp, but his heart is whole; Bea is all splinters. Not meant to be touched.
“You’re back late,” she says, instead of the truth: you should leave me.
“Lots of questions,” Ben says. “Cops are tedious like that. ‘No, I couldn’t see the killer’s face. No, I didn’t stick around for the lace ceremony. No, I ran screaming in the other direction.”
Bea winces. “How is Meg?”
“Shook up. Staying with Sula, Tony, and their expensive security system for now.”
“And,” Bea says gently, “how are you?”
She half-expects him to run out the door again; instead, Ben lifts a trembling hand. “Steady as a rock,” he says brightly. “Fit as a fiddle. Strong as—”
Bea hugs him.
Ben collapses against her, breathing deeply into her hair. It gives her emotions. Bea carefully decides not to name them.
“Meg almost died,” Ben says, voice muffled and unsteady. “And Connor, I never liked Connor, but he didn’t deserve—I shouldn’t feel—”
“Relieved,” Bea says. “You’re relieved he died, instead of Meg. It’s okay.”
“It’s not—”
“I am, too,” Bea says honestly, and Ben shudders.
He sits back up, pale but dry-eyed. He stiffens almost immediately, though, has obviously noticed the occult books spread across the coffee table. “Changing your thesis?” he asks, striving for lighthearted and failing the goal.
“It would certainly be more sensational.”
“Officer Berry stopped by, didn’t he?”
“Yes,” Bea says, amused, “but rumors of Dead Hero’s Revenge are all around campus. Very chivalrous of you, though, trying to save me from them.”
This time, Ben winces. “Bea—”
“It’s fine. I just thought I’d do some light research.”
“Light,” Ben says, snorting, but reads from the notebook she passes him. “The wronged spirit will keep killing until it’s appeased. Unwed ghosts may find rest if they take vows at the tomb with the lover who spurned them…Bea, where did you even find this?”
“Everything on Wikipedia is true,” Bea says, straight-faced.
Ben snorts again, but doesn’t push. She hates that, too. She wants to be the kind of person who isn’t held together by spite and desperation, who doesn’t hurt the people around her, who can speak mirth and matter alike. She wants to be the kind of girlfriend Ben deserves.
But that’s not something she knows how to be.
“It’s not Hero,” Bea says, looking away. “She’d never attack Meg unless she’s no longer the Hero I loved, and that hurts too much to bear. But if it isn’t Hero, then she’s really gone forever, and…is it wrong, I wish it was her?”
Ben kisses her. “It’s not wrong. It’s not wrong at all.”
They spend the night watching Jeopardy reruns and laughing at contestants who get the answers wrong. Ben orders from Bea’s favorite takeout. Bea spoon-feeds him dumplings because it makes him laugh. Eventually, she falls asleep, curled against his chest. If she dreams of Hero, she doesn’t remember.
A noise wakes her, a sharp inhale. Ben is awake, pale, staring at his phone.
It’s obvious. But Bea has to ask anyway. “Ben?”
Ben nods slowly. “Pedro’s dead.”
So. Pedro died like this:
He’s getting off work. The cops told him not to go, but unlike Clay, Pedro has a job, and his boss doesn’t accept “possible homicidal ghost” as a valid excuse. Sneaking out is easy, though, since his so-called protection detail is just Officer Berry parked outside the frat. Besides, he isn’t too worried. Pedro is a Good Guy. He knows because everyone’s always told him so.
See, Pedro doesn’t approve of murder, obviously, but if anyone’s gonna be the target of a vengeance spree, well. He’s not shocked Donny made the list. His brother has done some fucked-up things, but Pedro? He only made an honest mistake: Meg’s sexy Renaissance dress was nearly identical to Hero’s Dead Bride costume, and besides, Bo actually called her Hero, like, how could Meg not notice? And sure, Donny had always been a duplicitous sonofabitch—but he’d been turning over a new leaf, supposedly. Way Pedro sees it, all he’d really done was give his brother the benefit of the doubt and stand by his good friend.
But Ben saw it differently. And now, Clay does, too. He’s been moody and withdrawn lately, insisting Pedro should’ve held him back, that he knew how Clay got. They used me, Clay had yelled the other night, weeping as he shoved Pedro out of his room. It wasn’t my fault, Hero. They turned me into a weapon against you. Clay’s always been prone to melodrama, though. Pedro isn’t a bad guy, so he figures he’s safe. Of course he won’t die. He doesn’t deserve to.
That’s why it’s a pretty big shock for Pedro when he slides into the driver’s seat and promptly gets his throat slit.
It’s officially Act IV now, and Ben would like to get drunk.
He doesn’t because he has Opinions on people who get drunk during serial killer sprees. Unpopular opinions, apparently, hence this trip to the little boys’ room, pissing out his fourth cup of coffee, while Meg, Tony, and Sula are self-medicating with bottomless mimosas.
Pedro is dead. Pedro. Pedro.
Bo, Connor, Donny, the Dean…Ben never cared about those guys. But Pedro, fuck. Ben had looked up to him once. Without his meddling, would Ben and Bea have even gotten together? Would Ben have confessed his feelings after the party? Would she have confessed her own? Would he have caught her, stumbling for the door, ready to kill Clay with her bare hands?
Ben grimaces, both at the memory and at this bathroom’s lack of anything resembling a paper towel. He’s not surprised the cops demanded to know Bea’s whereabouts last night—but he’d been with her the whole time, unable to sleep: seeing a face bifurcate will do that to a guy. Bea isn’t the killer, can’t be. The question is who is?
Ben isn’t killing anyone, obviously. Neither is Hero, and it’s probably not some nearly identical cousin, seeking her revenge. Sula had always been fond of Hero, and could surely wield an axe—but Sula and Meg share an alibi. Tonydoesn’t die, but is just such a good boy.
“That only leaves Clay,” Ben murmurs, as he walks back to their table. “But Clay’s a target. If the killer doesn’t care about Meg’s innocence, then they definitely won’t care about his public lamentations. Anyway, Clay’s not a murderer. He’s just…hot-blooded. Self-righteous. Occasionally violent. He’s just…”
Tall, Ben thinks. He’s just tall.
“Holy shit,” Ben mutters, as a crumpled napkin hits him in the face.
He startles, only to see Tony, Sula, and Meg all laughing at him. Ah. Ben’s been so distracted that he walked right past their table; clearly, he needs more caffeine. “What were you monologuing this time?” Meg asks, sipping a grapefruit rosé mimosa, like a heathen.
No chance Ben’s telling them that. “I was in the midst of deep thoughts,” he says loftily, pouring himself a new cup, “which you hobby-horses aren’t worthy of hearing.”
“No one ever understands what you’re saying, man,” Tony complains. “Are you even having coffee with that milk?”
Tony’s “mimosa” is made with beer. “You have the taste buds of a peasant,” Ben informs him, “and do I need to remind you that there’s a killer—”
Everyone groans. “Please don’t,” Meg says, drinking her own abomination. “Stop ruining my buzz, dude. If I die, I wanna at least die bubbly and warm.”
But no one dies warm, do they? Pedro, choking on his own blood. Bo, his insides falling out. What if the killer gets to Meg again? What if they don’t miss? What if they do miss and hit Tony or Sula instead? What if Ben loses them all? What if—
“Ben,” Meg says, squeezing his shoulder. “Breathe a second, okay?”
“I’m fine,” Ben says, hands shaking. Nobody listens to him: Sula takes away his coffee-milk, and Tony tells him to put his head between his knees.
Meg squeezes his hand. “Ben. I’m sorry.”
It might be the first time she’s ever said those words. He doesn’t like it.
“Not your fault,” Ben says. “It’s just…”
It’s just Ben once assumed he’d die a bachelor, but not because he’d die before having the chance to propose. It’s just he doesn’t know who’s next. If it was only Bo who’d died, or Leo, or Donny. If it was only Pedro, which he doesn’t want to admit, even to himself.
“It’s just that Meg’s in danger,” Ben says, “and Connor’s dead, too, even though he wasn’t involved at all, and what if—”
“Well,” a voice says from out of nowhere. “He was a little involved.”
Ben squeaks. Where—oh, for fuck’s sake. Officer Berry is in the next booth, holding an overly large newspaper and wearing a fake mustache. Naturally.
“I saw Connor that night,” Ben tells him. “He was puking for hours. There’s no way—we all know—what do you mean—”
“Deep breaths,” Tony reminds him.
Ben breathes impatiently. “How was Connor involved?”
Officer Berry puffs up with pride. “Officer Virgil and I broke up that party, you know.”
“Yeah,” Meg says. “That’s literally your job.”
“Thank you,” Officer Berry says with infuriating sincerity. “We overheard Bo explain the whole torrid scheme—”
“Do you mean sordid?” Sula asks, frowning.
“—and Connor told Bo to keep his mouth shut. We arrested them straightaway for public intoxication and private villainy. They were each allowed an extra phone call, in order to confess their dirty trick against love—but they refused.”
Ben sits back heavily.
So, Connor had known about the set-up before Hero had died. He’d known and never said anything. Asshole. Ben’s almost glad Connor caught an axe with his face, which—shit, maybe he’d been the target all along. Maybe Meg is safe. Maybe—
“Surprised you didn’t know,” Officer Berry says, adjusting his mustache. “Your girlfriend was furious last year when she found out.”
Ben…stops.
Only for a moment, though. Then he smiles and takes his coffee back. “Bea’s always been smarter than me,” Ben says, and it’s the truth. Bea is so fucking smart, always has been. Meg’s pretty smart, too. Maybe she isn’t alive just because of good reflexes. Maybe Meg had known exactly where to stand, when to duck. Maybe Meg had known she’d need an alibi.
Maybe Bea had known she’d need one, too.
“Rest in peace, Connor,” Ben says, raising his glass. “You were the Worst.”
Meg meets his eye. “I’ll drink to that.”
Twenty minutes later, Ben ushers Meg, Sula, and Tony into an Uber, insisting he needs to stretch his legs and monologue. Meg believes him, he thinks. Maybe. Hopefully. What Ben actually does is walk home, so he can spend a few hours on the couch, preparing questions like ‘My dear Lady Disdain. Is it possible that, secretly, you’re a serial killer?’ Because if it’s not her and Meg, then it’s Clay—and how has this become his life? How are the only viable murder suspects his once best friend, or his girlfriend and new best friend? (It’s still not Hero. It’s not.)
It has to be Clay. Ben’s going to propose to Bea, for fuck’s sake.
It has to be Bea and Meg. Clay is too hot-headed to actually plan anything.
It has to be Clay. What if Meg had moved too slow? What if Bea had misjudged her aim?
It can’t be Bea. It can’t be Meg. It can’t be Clay.
Ben opens his front door. He stops.
“Is that an axe in your hand,” Ben asks, “or are you just happy to see me?”
Bea, sitting on the living room floor, glances at the blood-stained axe she’s cleaning. “I confess nothing,” she says, after a moment, “nor deny nothing.”
They stare at each other.
“Well,” Bea says finally. “This is awkward, isn’t it?”
This is how Meg and Bea became masked serial killers.
So, Meg likes sex. Girl’s never felt any shame, not for who, or how many, or what she likes to do during. Sometimes, Meg’s ashamed of being exclusively into dudes, but such is life. We can’t all be fabulously queer. Besides, roleplaying Hero isn’t even close to the weirdest thing Meg’s done, especially since Hero—well. She’s a good girl, a rich girl, the princess of Messina University. Meg loves her, but seriously. This whole place is so incestuous. If Bo has some fantasy about fucking his way into academic royalty, well, why the hell not?
But then Meg wakes up to 87 missed texts and realizes that Bo used her. He made her body a weapon, a sword in Clay’s hand. Of course, she calls Hero, ready to apologize, explain—but by then it’s too late, and now Meg knows shame. It’s unearned, but it eats at her, threatens to swallow her whole. So, Meg confesses to Bea, insists Hero’s death is her fault.
Bea criticizes her arithmetic. Meg doesn’t factor into the equation. Bo is to blame, and Donny, and Leo and Connor and Clay most of all—but the law won’t touch them, and Bea is so tired, always so tired now. “What’s the point of law,” she asks, “if guilty men keep going free? But there’s nothing be done. A woman can’t change anything by wishing.”
“What’s the point,” Bea asks, closing her eyes, “of doing anything at all?”
Meg watches as Bea folds into her grief, as Ben panics, trying to help her. As Leo’s slapped on the wrist, and Pedro’s forgiven, and Connor’s forgotten, and Clay is pitied, pitied,is helpless. But clearly, your math sucks, too.”
Bitches. It’s Act V.
Bea smiles wanly, still holding the axe. “Well. Have I lost the heart of Sir Benjamin?”
Ben…thinks about it.
He thinks about Pedro and Clay, the shit the three of them got up to together. Clay’s intensity and terrible acting. Pedro’s loyalty and propensity to meddle. The knowledge, the absolute certainty, that they’d be friends for life.
He thinks about Hero, wandering alone and hurt and confused. Dead on some lonely morgue table, cold and forever still. She’d been going to nursing school. Wanted to get married and have kids. Wanted to see Italy, travel the world. She’d never get the chance.
He thinks about finding Bo and regretting his ruined shoes. Hearing about Donny and worrying after the books. Being horrified by the literal horror show—but even more by his own apathy. Pedro, yes, he’s sorry about Pedro. But.
Ben also remembers Pedro and Clay laughing the day after Hero’s death. They weren’t laughing that she died—no, such a shame, they said—but at the idea that either of them had done anything wrong. What a joke, right, who could believe it? Their consciences were clear, and it wasn’t until later, after Donny’s treachery came to light, that Clay had loudly wailed, “Sweet Hero!” for everyone to see. Knocking a woman to the ground, leaving her for dead, spitefully telling her father all the tawdry details, knowing full well how he’d react—well, those things weren’t unjust, not really, not if the woman actually was a slut.
Ben thinks about how sick he’d felt, realizing he was friends with men like that.
He thinks, too, about the last 48 hours: his insomnia, anxiety. Bea and Meg were responsible for that. They’d lied to him, tricked him, used him as an alibi. Nobody had been following Meg. Bea had never thought Hero had returned. Even the occult books were a part of some elaborate plan. Ben is so pissed about that, really, but also—Meg apologizing, squeezing his shoulder. Bea hugging him. The ring in his back pocket. Ben imagines giving it to Bea, not giving it to Bea. Spending his life with a murderer. Spending his life without her.
Ben doesn’t have to think anymore.
He drops to one knee, fishing out the ring, and says, “I don’t love anything in the world so much as you.”
“…That’s not the reaction I was expecting,” Bea says.
Ben nods. That’s fair.
Bea watches him, eyes wary. “I’d never hurt you, if that’s why you’re doing this. Go to the cops; I won’t stop you. Don’t—please don’t pretend. Don’t show me that ring and then—”
But Ben isn’t afraid, not of Bea. “I want to spend the rest of my life with you. I’ll swear it on anything. This ring. The moon, the sun. Our PlayStation.”
“A fine choice,” Bea says, very dry. “And which of my bad parts do you love best? The deceit, the exhaustion, the multiple murders?”
“The wit, the devotion, the body perfection. For all your good and bad parts together.”
Bea exhales, long and slow. “You’re sure about this. You really want…”
“I want you,” Ben tells her. “By this hand, Bea. I love thee.”
And Bea smiles, bright and brilliant. She steps forward, arching a brow. “Surely then,” she says, “you can find a better use for that hand, hmm?”
Ben jumps to his feet. Bea sets down her axe. He slides the ring on her finger and his hands under her skirt. “Yes,” Bea answers, to both proposals. “Ben, yes—”
And then she pauses. Draws back.
“I’m really glad you’re taking this so well,” Bea says. “Because I meant it when I said I’d never hurt you. But Meg was 50/50 on the subject, and I really wasn’t looking forward to fighting her at all.”
“What,” Ben says, and turns around. Meg is lurking near the doorway, a six-inch blade in her hand. She looks conspicuously sober.
“More like 30/70,” Meg tells him, grin feral. “But hey! Congratulations!”
“Jesus Christ,” Ben says, and sits down.
So. The denouement, the good shit. The revenge we’ve all been waiting for:
Clay’s been hiding in his room, right, cause Hero’s been haunting him, lurking around outside the frat. He wants to tell Hero how bravely he defended her, afterwards. He wants to explain just how hard this has all been for him, but on the off-chance she won’t forgive him—well. He needs some advice. If only he had any friends still alive—
Flash goes the lightbulb.
Ben texts back a ritual. That’s how Clay ends up at Hero’s grave just before midnight, summoning her with a song on his acoustic guitar—cause oh yeah, absolutely, he’s That Asshole. He tries lifting her veil, and is secretly relieved when she stops him.
“Give me your hand,” he says instead, and it’s not as cold as he expected.
“I always loved you,” Clay says, like that even matters. “I’ll be your husband, if you’ll have me—”
But then some sharp agony suddenly bursts through his back, and again through his chest. And yup, that’s Clay, a blade sticking out of him, through him, one white polo shirt destroyed. That’s Meg lifting her blood-spattered veil. That’s Bea holding the sword.
That’s Bea: “No, I will not have you.” And standing beside her—
“Ben,” Clay gasps, crumpling, coughing blood on Ben’s shoes. “Help.”
But Ben just closes his eyes. And Meg’s like, “Shit, kid, you have the worst luck,” and Bea’s like, “Poor heart, you didn’t have to come,” and Ben’s all, “Yeah, I did. I’m engaged, after all.” And Clay’s desperate, saying, “Dude, we’re friends,” and Ben’s like, “We were, but I made better ones.” Ben’s thinking maybe he should just go around barefoot. He’s thinking a wedding on the beach might be nice. Dancing, there will be so much dancing. He’s dizzy and giddy and pale with love. Ben’s thinking, Hey, nonny nonny—
Meg’s sword rips through Clay’s throat.
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Carlie St. George is a Shirley Jackson Award finalist from Northern California whose work has been published in Nightmare, The Dark, The Year’s Best Dark Fantasy and Horror, and multiple other anthologies and magazines. Her debut short story collection You Fed Us to the Roses is out now from Robot Dinosaur Press. Find her talking about television, tropes, fanfic, writing, and other nerdy things on Twitter @MyGeekBlasphemy or at her blog mygeekblasphemy.com. |